Left Behind
by inkwheels
Summary: Jo's trapped in the feelings of loss and this is how she deals with it behind closed doors. One shot. *complete*


Author's Note: I do not own the characters of Forever. No copyright infringement is intended.

I hope we get to find out more about Jo because the few crumbs they've given us make me wonder what's going inside her head. Until then, here's what I came up with. Something short and sweet. This is set just after the pilot episode.

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><p>I slide the key into the lock on my apartment door, hesitating for a moment as I let out a sigh because I know what's waiting for me on the other side of it – nothing.<p>

After spending the past few days in the hospital, I really could have used his open arms to fall into and hold me, but they're not there. I think of this every time I walk through the door and I don't know that I'll ever be able to stop.

I drag myself inside, locking the door behind me, and then peel my leather jacket off; wincing as my shoulder aches from the movement. It's okay. The pain will be gone soon, the physical pain at least, alcohol is great for that.

My apartment still smells like him sometimes; his spiced cologne still lingering on whatever else in the apartment doesn't want to let go of him either. While I love it, I hate it at the same time, especially in times like this when I need him.

Sighing heavily, I grab a bottle of vodka out of my freezer and pour some into a small glass. Taking a sip, I bask in the warmth as it goes down my throat. I'm sure if Henry were here he'd give me the speech about how painkillers and alcohol should never be mixed, but I honestly don't care right now and dismiss the thought. Finishing up what's left in the glass, I leave it on the counter for now because I'm not done yet.

I go into the bedroom, disrobing as I go and intend on taking a shower. The hospital smell lingers on my skin and I'd prefer to wash it away even if getting my stitches wet are against doctor's orders. "You're lucky," the doctors said, "It was a through and through, but an inch higher and it would have taken out your collar bone." That would have meant riding a desk for months, and I hate desk duty.

I let the water warm up before stepping in and allow the steam to envelope me. The water stings my wounds and while it's bothersome at first, it reminds me I'm alive so I let it be. Sometimes I need to be reminded because I often don't feel like it.

Resting my forehead against the tile I close my eyes and flash back to the night on the roof, the night that bastard put a hole in my shoulder. I remember lying there, wondering if I lay there long enough my blood would run out of my body and I'd finally get to see him again. My vision began to dim and the world faded away but I never got to see him. Instead, I woke to find Henry standing by my bedside. Not that I wasn't grateful for his concern, but he's not him.

I rotate my right shoulder, well, try to, and test out whether the warmth of the shower has magically made it feel better.

It hasn't.

Letting the water wash over me, I finish up as best I can with only the use of my left hand, then I climb out and wrap myself in one of my favorite thick and fluffy towels. Those still smell like him, too.

I swipe my hand across the mirror and take a good look at myself. "Wow," I say as I take in the sight before me: bags under my eyes that have a slightly bruised look to them and my skin is pale. I look as good as I feel.

Toweling off, I shrug on a robe because that's about all I have the energy for at the moment. I really should put a fresh bandage over my wound but I decide that it can wait until morning.

Padding out into the kitchen I spy the bottle of vodka and am eager to reunite with it, but first I toss a frozen dinner into the microwave, waiting the few minutes for it to heat through before pulling it out and putting it on a plate so I can carry it.

After two trips to the kitchen, I settle myself down on the couch. This is where I'll finish off the bottle and end up sleeping. I don't usually sleep in the bed anymore, not since he's been gone.

Taking a few bites of my pasta, I wash it down with some alcohol. It's not the best combination but I really don't want to feel anything right now, especially pain. It's been hard enough dealing with the pain of losing him. I don't want to add a gunshot wound to my list.

I realize that I always seem to refer to my husband as "he" or "him." I think if I say his name what's left of my heart will break into a thousand pieces. With that thought, I take a long swig of my drink and start to feel the effects.

I don't know why I still call him my husband. He's not "mine" anymore. It angers me that he was taken from me and now belongs to whoever thought it was his time to leave this earth, leaving me behind.

Before long I've finished off the bottle and lay on the couch in a haze of nothing. The pain in my shoulder isn't there but even in my drunken state the pain in my heart hasn't budged. The only thing that makes that go away is when my eyes drift shut as I pass out – ending another day alone.

END


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